Edit: (Sept. 26th, 2018) I myself am no longer personally managing this project, it was passed into other hands quite some time ago. It is still active; I am simply not at the helm and have passed it to other kind folks to manage. Please see the names in the 2nd post. These are the individuals who are pre-approved to post the Word of the Day for people to enjoy. If you would like to contribute to the Word, please contact one of the names in the 2nd post to inquire & ask for permission to do so. If you feel there is any uncertainty in this 1st post or 2nd post, message either a name from the 2nd post or an active Oracle. You may message me if you wish, of course, just be aware I am not the person actively managing this right now.

Are you waiting for approval or a response to your roleplay? Looking for something to kick-start your desire to write?

Try out our Word of the Day challenge!

The challenge is based on Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day! Each day, a word, selected by merriam-webster.com, will be posted in this thread for the challenge. Word of the Day challenges writers to use a word that isn't in common vernacular in their writing. This is a great way to challenge ourselves to use new words or even old words in a new way. This is all about getting a chance to push yourself, be inspired, and to show off your writing each day as we provide a new word for you! Approved and unapproved members are both welcome to participate here.

Please post your response in this thread. Keep in mind, there is no minimum or maximum word count! Write however much or little feels comfortable for you. Our only requirement is that you must use the word of the day. Make sure to emphasize the selected word in either bold or in ALL CAPS letters. If the current word doesn't inspire you, feel free to use one of the previous words of the day for your response.

The sun was rising higher and higher, rising to the highest point in the sky. The heat bore down on the small town, but no one walked the streets. The fountain in the center of town was a watering hole for the youth who were looking to escape the midday heat, but it was barren. The small stands at the local market, normally thriving with the hustle and bustle of the shopkeepers was as quiet as the catacombs. All doors were closed and every window was shuttered. Very rarely would a small face be seen peeking through a window before a parent snatched them away and made sure the shutters were locked. Not a single sound could be heard as the tension filled the air with a buzz that one could almost hear.

It had been like this for hours as the light breeze tossed up wind into small, brief twisters in the streets. Even the local animals could sense that something was wrong. The horses stomped their hooves and shook their heads as if sensing a predator in the winds. The stray dogs crawled into whatever shade they could find, hidden away from sight. Even the insects, their buzz normally rising and lowering like a living being, seemed silent. It was eerie for someone who might have lived in this city, but there it was.

After another hour passed and the sun had finally reached its peak. As the bell rang from the church's chapel, a lone figure walked out of the tall doors. He lifted his hand up against the glare, sighed, and continued down the steps to the main street. He wasn't a big man, nor was he intimidating. He wore a simple shirt and vest and a rugged pair of jeans. On his head was a beaten cap advertising the 'Red Sox,' pulled low over his eyes. However, what was most striking was the long piece of wood in his left hand. It was nearly as long as he was tall and carved with strange symbols. The man gripped it as if it were a lifeline as he stepped slowly towards the center of town.

The Counsel had sent him to 'The Middle of Nowhere, Mexico' because of unconfirmed reports of a Black Court Vampire and a warlock terrorizing the area. He'd tracked them for nearly thirty miles until he came here. During the day, the townsfolk were terrorized if they looked the wrong way at the 'corrupted medicine man' that had seemingly made a pact with a 'demon of the night.' After asking a few questions here and there, the story came to a head. The Vampire had made a deal with the warlock to trade what it knew of the art of Necromancy in return for the warlock's protection during the day. He'd taken care of the Vampire while it was at its weakest along the way, but he could still feel the pain in his right shoulder where it had been dislocated in the most painful way possible. Now, he was here at the orders of the Merlin himself to ameliorate this town's plight. Hopefully, the leader of this town had given the warning to everyone in time as he couldn't afford to hold back when dealing with a necromancer.

There, the small house stood, its door ajar as the shadows started to beacon menacingly. There was a set of stairs that would lead down into the crypt that the town kept, the necromancer's home ground. The warlock had nearly half a day's head start to prepare, so whatever was down there was not going to be pleasant. As he opened the door, the small man sighed and muttered under his breath, "Ready or not, you bastard, here I come. I'm no Dresden, but you're not escaping this inferno."

The moment he finished, he pointed the staff down the flight of stairs and cried, "Incinenum!" With a violent whoosh, a deep, purple flame shot down the stairs, engulfing the three newly-raised Ghouls as they took their first steps into what would have been a charge...

The blackguard stood at the Tower of Fallen Echoes, and near him, on her knees, was a woman of pristine and honorable virtue. Her dress, white silk and trimmed with ermine, fluttered in the sickly wind that poisoned this place. She had been reluctant to leave, though this last bastion of the Farr lineage was well and truly conquered. The blackguard himself was clad in full plate armor, the heraldry of the Crimson King upon his breast. That heraldry was a bloodied crown atop a silver stag's head on a sable field. His sword, a battered thing that had brought many of his foes to their untimely ends, was sheathed. There was no need for it here.

"You must come soon, or by my master's order, I must take your life," the dark knight said to her. His voice was a heady rasp. No aspect of his face or body was visible, hidden behind that armor, so dark that it was as if he were painted with ink and star-void. She was as bright and tender as he was corrupt and sinister, and yet they did not seem to hate each other.

"And I would lief go, but my father's bones rest here," she whispered. "I cannot leave him before his spirit passes on into the Golden Territories. It lingers here and screams from the Tower."

"There is nothing you may do for him, Princess Arella. He is beyond your prayers, mired in Limbo as he is," the blackguard said.

"I know, my brother," she said, her voice pained even saying it. Her traitor brother, who had brought them all low and was, with his bargains with fell entities and his political mongering with the Crimson King, the most feared knight in all the realms now. He left nothing but destruction and wailing spirits in his wake...and yet she remained by only the most tenuous of circumstances.

And so she rose, looking devastated, knowing that soon this blackguard who was once her brother would bring her before King Sutland and that she would become part of a dynasty that would shatter the Seven Kingdoms forever.

The piercing shriek of the beast could be heard echoing down the valley, sending even the bravest among those gathered at the sanctuary trembling. This was the very last place they could hide for the icy rock path that lay between them and the nearest town was as dangerous as what was pursuing them. Among those crowded around were wounded, the young, the elderly, and the sick. Less than a quarter of them had survived the treacherous journey, only able to travel by day where the nocturnal beast could not hunt.

Gorlen gathered all the able-bodied men that remained and ushered them to the small room normally used to store grains imported from the warmer farming towns at the base of the mountain. As the last of them entered, he closed the door and turned to them. They made for a sorry bunch, only six where there had once been thirty barely five days previously. Among those gathered, the face of his son was absent, having sacrificed his life to hold the beast at bay to allow his wife and her unborn child the chance to escape. Though she was now sleeping, Gorlen could swear he heard her weeping still. If he'd had time to rest and think, he might have joined her in her sorrow. But, he couldn't, not when so many depended on him.

Standing in a semi-circle around him, the men shivered under their leather and fur armor. The cold was bearing down upon them and the daylight was rapidly losing ground to the night. It wouldn't be long before the beast left its lair and stalked them again. Gorlen squared his shoulders and spoke in a tone that rang with authority, "I won't lie. It is unlikely we will survive the night. We are all that remains, the last wall between that monster and our loved ones. If all it would take to stop the Leonark was my life, I would lief give it. Alas, I ask you to do the impossible and survive. Survive just long enough for the gods above to shine their lights upon us one last time. There is only a small chance that our beloved will make it down the final valley before night falls again, but it is a better chance than they would get if we should fail."

The beast roared again, this time close enough to rattle the pottery. There were surprised screams and the sound of the small ones crying. The men flinched and gripped their weapons tighter, looking around the room in fright. Gorlen inhaled slowly and waited a breath, "Men, I won't blame you if you are scared. I am more frightened than I ever have been before. However, running away and hiding will not only kill you, but also the lives of everyone here. I beg of you to risk your lives with me one more time. If we succeed, we will meet in the afterlife and be praised. Should we fail, not even the Nine Hells will have a place for us. Are you with me?"

The sound of the men giving a war cry fell into silence at the snarl of an angry hunter from just outside the perimeter. Gorlen nodded and led his men out into the cold of the night, snow crunching underfoot. He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear past his own heartbeat, but he knew it was out there. Gorlen lit the torch and raised it up. As he did so, he saw the scarred face of the monster as it crouched on the roof of the sanctuary, its soulless, yellow eyes narrowed with inhuman intelligence and its lips stretched into a horrific grin. Gorlen unsheathed his sword and swung as the beast leaped down upon him.

Gorlen's final thoughts that night were, 'By the gods, you will not take my grandson from me!'

He lifted himself up into the air; a super power that was more of a burden than a delight. It didn't matter if he wore a silly costume or his normal work outfit. It didn't stop him from soaring through the air around cities or towns, not a city he hadn't lived in for more than six months. He did it at night, though the reason why it was a difficulty was not because he could do it. It was because he would see the worst of all mankind, especially at night. Muggings, stabbings, and other horrible menaces throughout the city.

Oh, what a cruel gift it was to be able to ascend into the air and fly. that was it; that was the only super power he had. He was not faster than a locomotive, nor was he able to make a leap in a single bound. All he could do was remember what he saw and possibly leave hints to police after the fact. It was ridiculous; he would lief have the ability to stop crime before he could fly.

But that was the catch 22 of it all, wasn't it? He wouldn't know about the crimes if he didn't have the gift of flight; but knowing was only half the battle. He could hardly do anything about it because he had no power. If he had extra physical strength, it would not necessarily mean he would have been given the gift of flight.

Clark Kent was always amazed; he had seen comic books written on him and his character as if he were this masterful and dutiful superhero who could do no wrong and had more power than anyone else. The problem was, they got it wrong. Whoever found out he could fly made the rest up ... he decided to go into hiding so he would not die of complete embarrassment.

"Lief..." he muttered, "Lief..." it was breathlessly said. Low and quiet, so as not to draw attention.

It happened every night, the same time, "Lief..."

His eyes widened as he sat up in his bed. A cold sweat dotting his brow as he stared at the window. There was no moon tonight. All he could see was his own, barely visible reflection on the inside of the pane, "Lief..."

Tonight was the night he was going to stop it. He couldn't let it go on anymore, "Lief..." he had to stop it.

His eyes focused on the clock as the time rolled to 12:01 and he took a deep breath as he held the gun up, pointing it towards the window. Lightening flashed and he saw the imprint of the hand mark left over from the nights before. The muddy print he had come to know so well, "Lief..." he half choked on his own voice as he waited.

"Lief..." the voice whispered and hissed coldly in his ear. There was no hand on the window tonight. The cold, bony, mud covered fingers wrapped around the side of his head and he fired the gun in shock. It rang out, but it did nothing to cover the sound of his screams.

The rains had been falling for days, water starting at the tributaries and slowly making their way down through the river valley and in to the gathering waters at the bottom of the watershed that the town was build upon. The rains were soaking in to the ground, only aiding to the lake's rising waters. One the edge of the bank, a man was standing, watching the water's rise further and further. An hour ago, it had passed the stakes he'd hammered in the ground.

His clothes were soaked through and muddy. He had been watching the waters from the moment the rains had begun. Now, it was only feet from his front door. He glanced backward, over his shoulder. A woman stood on the porch of an old farm house. With a heavy sigh, he turned his alpine frame and began to trudge up the way, removing the work gloves protecting his hands as he'd been working to save what he could of their small farm.

It was gone. Everything.

“It's time to go.”

He hadn't wanted to leave. It hadn't flooded in generations, but it was quite obviously flooding and getting worse by the minute. He'd tried to ignore the evacuation warnings, but he couldn't any longer. As his wife headed inside to wake their two children, he moved inside and to the kitchen to get the keys to his truck. Their bags were already packed by the front door, just in case. He proceeded to take them out to the truck and tie them down.

Outside again, the group of four, man and wife, teenage boy and toddler girl would ride away in a beaten up blue chevy. They had to leave their home to the ruin of the flood. For one thing the farmer had learned in his years. You don't stand in the way of mother nature. She'll mess you up.

The clock was ticking the seconds away. Mercilessly. Relentless. Echoing in the office like a perpetual reminder of eternity.

Sebastien felt as if the noise alone was driving him into a state of insanity. Slowly but surely he could feel his sanity edging toward the abyss. Was he losing his mind? Were all the nightmares real, in the end? Had he already lost it and was he merely clinging to what was 'socially accepted'? Like a clone, doing what was expected of him. Functioning instead of living.

"How do you feel today, Mr. Vanderbilt?" - it was the voice, suddenly forcing its way through the ticking noise that wasn't even really there. Only in his imagination, maybe. The mind was such a wide field, after all. Like a minefield, stocked with dread and danger. There was no reaction, not at once, after the question cut through the silence. Yes, silence. No ticking noise. No clock on the wall. It wasn't there. Nothing was there. Just his imagination filling the psychiatrists office. Leaving no room for reality - or so the young man thought. 'How -do- I feel?' Inhale. Exhale. His gaze still upon the window and beyond, studying the bare, naked trees outside in the garden, draped in fog and gloomy November weather. One single leaf still clinging to the dying branch, slowly swaying in icy gusts of wind. But it all vanished the moment he closed his eyes, giving room for his mind to paint its very own pictures. "Aware."

Silence. Breaths filling the room once more, but the young man could feel the psychiatrists eyes on his back. Burning, searing like a hot poker. Sebastien almost could smell it. The burning. The reminders of what would be left after the fire. "Good. How do you feel about what had happened with your sister, Sebastien?" How did the young man feel, indeed? He felt no guilt, even if he thought he was obligated to feel it after what had happened. It was 'normal' to feel guilt, was it not? Expected, too. Guilt and repentance. 'Fuck. That.' The young man gave no voiced reply, merely a slow rise and fall of a shoulder. He knew by now, more than a little likely. Fear notwithstanding.

The young man finally had turned his head after what must have seemed like an eternity, staring at the other man over a shoulder. Intense eyes, searching, trying to find something kindred in the psychiatrist. Something akin to understanding, maybe. No redemption because there was no redemption from dark places. Only more. "You will have to face your fears, Sebastien. Admit to what you have done. Only then you can rise above it and be what you are meant to be. I know you can do it." the psychiatrist said in his soothing, almost maddening tone, with a smile that was neither kind nor nice. Icy and intuitive. Most of all intuitive. It hit Sebastien like a sledgehammer. This realization. The doctor knew. Knew it all. The guilt and the pleasure that had been bestowed upon the young man. Terrible pleasure without redemption - or so he thought. Sebastien squeezed his eyes tightly shut and the images of this one, fateful night came quickly. And this time he even invited them. Willingly and fully aware of what they would show him. Dark places, indeed. Flickering, so clear in his memory, like a lovers kiss. There it was. All the blood, the screams and then... the silence. This almost peaceful silence afterwards. Sebastien never had felt so powerful ever before. So in control of everything.

"Am I insane, Doctor?" a mere whisper, dark, deep eyes upon his psychiatrist who merely smirked and shook his head. "No. Not insane, Sebastien. Aware. Now you are ready for the next steps and I shall guide you."

Now he was there. At long last. At this turning point. A watershed, indeed.

Definition1 : an evil spirit formerly thought to oppress people during sleep2 : a frightening dream that usually awakens the sleeper3 : something (such as an experience, situation, or object) having the monstrous character of a nightmare or producing a feeling of anxiety or terror

Crawling, clawing their way into a persons consciousness. They always came to stay even during waking hours. Persistant little bastards. Whispering, luring and tempting him. Can you hear them? Their sweet, sweet whispers, promises of redemption. Of more. Like an artist was inspired by their muse, the young man was inspired by his.. dreams. They always were a reflection of the soul, this one part of the human mind that had a mind on its own. Unconscious, uncontrollable, free of morale, judgment and social norms. Like a playground for devious minds and those who willingly ignored boundaries for their own benefits.

More than once they had discussed this. His dreams and what lingered after waking from them. Was it wrong that the young man invited them sometimes? They were like a reflection of once was, a mere echo of things that happened, clinging to his consciousness with no intention to fade away.

"Do you still dream about your sister Sebastien."

It was such a cliche, was it not? Then again, not really because in this particular case it was the root of all evil, if such profane things even exited. In fallacious diagnosis, perhaps. The young man once again blended it all out. The sounds. The ticking clock. The way the wind was drumming against the window, causing the glass to vibrate, almost. Like a symphony of death. Screams, cries and terror. How wonderful it sounded, no? Only the sound of his breath remained, filling the room, if only in his imagination. The way his breath caught in his throat was no imagination, though. Like the proverbial, invisible hand slowly closing around his throat. Tighter. Tighter. Taking breath, sound and life so quickly and so.. ultimate. "Yes." it lacked emotion. There was no sorrow left if there ever was such an emotion. No nightmare left to torment him and still - being forced to think of her left Sebastien in turmoil. Not because of her death, not because of the way she died. Because he was thinking of her. Of it.

It were the subtle changes in the young mans stance, the rhythm of his breathing, this subtle furrow of a brow and that barely born smirk that caught the doctors attention. Delightful, indeed. It was arousing on so many levels. Inspiring. Not so subtle if one was capable of reading body language. There was passion, undoubtedly so. Rage. Ravenous hunger and this delicious ind of contempt that made the young man a lot more than merely an object to study. Others could quench that kind of thirst but this young man was a diamond in the rough. Unaware of his potential, like a butterfly that was about to unfold his wings and fly for the very first time. One step. Then another that brought the man right next to his patient. Close. So close. "Are the dreams still the same? Did they change?" the psychiatrist inquired, even if he knew the answer already. It was the one he hoped for, in fact.

Sebastien once again shut his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths while he allowed the images to come again. Associations. Barely any dissonance left in the chaos. This one thing, this one occurance was so clear now since he had crossed this particular bridge. "No, they changed." he murmured and there was regret in his voice and this almost overbearing contempt. It had been her fault. All of it. Silence lingered. Only long enough to bestow more weight on the young mans words. "The nightmares are gone." regretful, almost. No. Not almost. There was regret. And the doctor knew. Understood. His hand, firmly places against the young mans shoulder spoke for itself.

It was about time his young patient would find another.. source of inspiration. More dreams. More contempt and more nightmares. Just spread his wings and fly.

Below are the words of the day for Saturday 3/25 and Sunday 3/26. Writers, feel free to use either word (or both!) until the word of the day for Monday is posted, since the word of the day for the Saturday is being posted late.

The word of the day for March 25th is:

unreconstructedadjective un-ree-kun-STRUK-tud

Definition

1: not reconciled to political, economic, or social change2 : holding stubbornly to a particular belief, view, place, or style

Definition1 : a sharp and often satirical or ironic utterance designed to cut or give pain2 a : a mode of satirical wit depending for its effect on bitter, caustic, and often ironic language that is usually directed against an individualb : the use or language of sarcasm

Definition1 a : contemplative of or relative to past events : characterized by, given to, or indulging in retrospectionb : being a generally comprehensive exhibition, compilation, or performance of the work of an artist over a span of years2 : affecting things past : retroactive

Kayla Reed was convinced that Jin’s retrospective report of the recent events in 6468 Eric Lane was a complete understatement as she drove up to the remote mansion, or rather what was left of it.

Only three things remained: a clean dirt plot where the mansion was, surrounding shattered trees, and a hole to the left that was a fountain according to the pictures of the mansion Jin found and collected for his report. Remembering the picture, the reporter could only think of two things that can make an elaborate, heavily secured mansion like that disappear completely. This thought made her body shiver at the memory of escaping one of those things long ago.

Jin you deceiving ass hat, Kayla thought, you fucking owe me one for this. Using her memory of the picture, Kayla guided herself through the clear cut remains. Security gates, underground sensors within the silver paved road, and sentry drones would be near at where she walked. Her mind became immersed at the surroundings for a brief moment, but before Kayla could fully tune into the developing image of that day when the destruction happened, the feeling quickly faded with a mental image of a white flash engulfing the area.

She thought about the possibility of a special kind of bomb doing this while gathering up the mental strength to tune in again. As she mused on to that thought, Kayla branched over to thinking of other things that could’ve caused this clean cut demolition. The longer she thought about this, the more she realized how desperate she was to deny who or what could have done this. “There’s no fucking way,” Kayla uttered in a low whisper, “this is the work of a hero.”

At that moment, Kayla knew she was going to need more than a retrospective glance at the collected facts and data from Jin’s report to not only confirm Jin’s hypothesis and to further her investigation, but to get insight on exactly what led to this clean massacre and who did it.

Ebby-Baby cast a reproachful glance in the direction of his mistress. She, the former immortal Viking Queen Aasa, demoted to a slightly shabby New York sorceress, balanced a skull on her chest while sipping a surprisingly good blended red, Ménage a Trois, from her one decent wineglass. Ebby felt he had a better right of possession to her chest, where he had planned to snuggle up against her chin and purr, than the thousand-year-old skull of her ancient enemy, but whatevs.

Aasa’s green eyes, a green the color of a naughty child transformed into a tadpole and now sunning on a lily pad, caught her familiar’s glance and she shrugged. “I know, I know, eight thirty is far too early in the morning for a glass of wine, but it’s 9:30 p.m. in Tokyo, a perfectly respectful time for a splash of the red.”

The black cat figuratively rolled his yellow-green eyes and headed to his water dish. She could drink wine all day long if she wanted. Just clear her nice soft chest so he could nest there. “Fine! Be that way,” the woman once known as Queen Aasa snapped and set the glass down. She snapped her fingers and an impressive array of sparks flickered up like a miniature display of fireworks. Smiling, she flicked off her covers and rose from the bed and stretched her tall, lush frame as she contemplated the retrospective she had planned for today. Her smile faded as sparks from her finger-snap began to smolder on her bed.

“Swina bqllr!” She muttered and patted down her striped bedspread until she was sure there was no risk of fire. Then she looked over at Ebby and snapped her fingers again. Where a well-fed black cat had crouched head under a wooden shelf as he drank from his water dish a moment before, a bearded, broad-shouldered, muscular, but very short man sat cursing as he bumped his head on the shelf.

“Bitch!” He said under his breath as he stood up and stretched to his full height of nearly five feet.

“What did you say?” She asked with a teasing hint of discipline in her tone.

He snorted. “I said you’re an amazingly talented witch.”

Aasa laughed and said, “Kringlaugd weird!” She then spun around as her clothing transformed from shabby nightgown into sexy little black dress. “We’re going back in time and review a bit of our past. ‘Vikings: Beyond the Legend’ is showing in Cincinnati and we’re flying out. I’m positive he will show and then we can sort out the mess that landed me in our current situation.”

He grinned, not at all intimidated. “And I’m not a four and a half-foot tall ex-Viking dwarf, but if the shoe fits ….”

Aasa grinned viciously. “Broomstick it is then. Enjoy the ride.”

“Bitch,” he responded to his mercurial mistress, but his eyes twinkled. And so their day began with a retrospective journey into their Viking past as they flew through fog, smog, and clouds west to Ohio on a lightweight Swiffer Sweeper Aasa had purchased last year on sale at K-Mart.

Definition1 : a scientific and philosophic rule that entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily which is interpreted as requiring that the simplest of competing theories be preferred to the more complex or that explanations of unknown phenomena be sought first in terms of known quantities

“So, the Vikings are invading Cincinnati?” Ebby said dryly as he read advertising for the exhibition, Vikings: Beyond the Legend.

“Be quiet!” Ebby’s mistress, the Sorceress Aasa snapped. She cursed as her hairbrush broke through another wind-tangled knot in her thick, red-gold tresses. “Why you insisted we come by broom, I have no idea.”

Ebby’s black-beard bristled and his yellow-green eyes snapped. But then he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Not even going to touch it,” he growled. Aasa laughed and moved forward as the line advanced.

“So why do you think he’ll be here?” He asked as he scanned the crowd of portly, pasty-faced tourists.

“Occam’s razor!” She said with one triumphantly raised golden caterpillar of an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Seriously? You’re going to toss Occam’s razor out there without any context? Do you even know what it means?”

Aasa’s caterpillars descended into an angry “V” shape. “Only reasonable explanation!” She said. Then she snickered. “As if you, a mere cat would know.”

Ebby grinned. “I’m hardly a mere cat. He stroked his beard, pulled himself up to his full four-and-a-half-foot Viking dwarf height and cocked his own thick, black left eyebrow. “It’s a scientific rule that favors the simpler explanation over the more complex. You’ve provided no data, no more complex explanation, you just throw out the term like it’s the word of the day.”

Aasa looked stumped, but only momentarily. “I’m hypothesizing that Gymir will show today at this exhibit, because the bones of his grandson who died in 1008 A.D. are among those on display instead of flitting off to farking Canada to play golf with the pixies. His showing up to see an exhibit from his homeland is the simpler explanation, thus, I can say Occam’s razor when I dismiss the more absurd Canadian golfing pixies explanation.”

Ebby fell silent until after they reached the pine counter where museum staff were checking tickets. He stood silent while Aasa argued with the staff that she could take the Swiffer Sweeper they had flown in on into the museum, finally ungraciously surrendering the faux broom with their promise that she could retrieve it after going through the Viking artifact exhibit. Finally, she looked over at Ebby and said, “What are you doing? The silent treatment?”

Ebby grinned. “This is me not calling you a frigging idiot. It’s a rule intended to choose between two viable alternatives. I don’t think it was ever a possibility that Old Gymir was golfing with pixies in France.”

Aasa shrugged. “I said Canada, not France. But I see your point.” As she spoke, a slight girl around nineteen or twenty with long, dyed black hair and a pierced eyebrow and nose-ring approached.

Raven had felt puzzled when she heard the black-bearded man mention her grandfather’s name. It’s not like people named Gymir are common in Ohio. Normally, Raven didn’t like to approach people. But something about the man made her want to reach out and stroke his beard. He threw off this non-threatening, but aloof and independent vibe. Now the whacked-out woman next to him? Her vibe was more needy badger.

The bearded man smiled. “So, you’re the granddaughter of Gymir and Aurboða?”

Raven nodded. She didn’t than much more than five foot three inches tall and she wore a pair of black jump boots that looked like they might have been issued in basic training thirty or forty years ago, which must have added an inch or so to her height.

Ebby smiled. “I’m Ebby and your grandfather and I used to work together quite a few years ago.” He paused a moment and then added, “I thought you would be taller. Your grandfather’s a literal giant of a man.”

This reassured Raven. Her grandfather at six foot eight inches was indeed taller than any man she knew. As she stared at the man she now knew as Ebby, she heard a snap and smelled something sulphurous, but she ignored in favor of focusing on the short man. “You seem kind of young to have worked with my papa.” The bearded man didn’t look much more than twenty-five or so, only five or so years older than her own nineteen years.” She glanced at the woman. “You’re a bit older though, but still too young.”

Aasa said dryly. “Oh we worked together. It was sort of a family business. You might even say you and I are distant cousins.” She stared down at the girl from her superior height. “And I’m not that old.”

“Sorry ma’am,” Raven said with the kind of tone a teenager would use to communicate to a despised adult that they didn’t consider them worth talking too.” She glanced back at Ebby. “I have to go. My granddad is … I mean he’s not around anymore. Yeah, he umm … he passed on.”

Ebby didn’t need a degree in rocket science discern the transpicuous fact that the girl was lying. “You enjoy the exhibit miss,” he said almost genially. “I’m sure your grandfather doesn’t want you to miss any part of it.”

Raven nodded and said, “Yeah.” Then she turned and nearly ran off.

“The girl’s lying!” Aasa snapped.

Ebby laughed. “You think?”

“I’m going to do something,” Aasa snapped.

“You mean like follow her home?”

Aasa looked sheepish and nodded yes. “I like you better as a cat,” she added.

“Scratch my head and you can turn me back anytime,” Ebby said with a grin.

“Don’t think I won’t!”

In the distance, Raven had turned as was watching the pair. I’m so transpicuous when I try to lie. she thought guiltily. They must know grandad’s alive.

Following Raven home proved more difficult in practicality than theory. While Raven took off on her black bicycle decorated with a silver skull on the handle bars, Aasa got in a fight with the museum staff over her Sweeper Swiffer. Someone had mistakenly returned the faux broom from lost and found to the janitor’s closet. Ebby rested his hand on Aasa’s shoulder, doing his best to exert his calming kitty influence despite being in dwarf form. “Do you really want to explain two hopping toads and missing museum staff,” he asked with an unhelpfully wicked grin. “Remember last time?”

“No and yes,” Aasa said. “I still want my broomstick.”

“Sixteen bucks or less at K-Mart,” he argued. “I’ll ….” His voice trailed off.

Aasa laughed. “Aren’t you the munificent one. Going to give them sixteen worth of kitty treats?” Ignoring the sudden possessive look in his eyes at the mention of his kitty treats, the sorceress glanced outside where it had begun to rain. “Lqngubak-meinfretr!” She cursed.

Ebby nodded. “The girl’s gone.”

Walking outside, she muttered “Captain Obvious” under her breath as she pulled out her cell phone and dialing for an Uber. When the driver arrived, she snapped her fingers and caused the driver to be under a geas granting him the power and duty to track down Raven. Immediately after she did so, the sixty-year-old man who had been taking tickets inside the museum joined them outside, carrying Aasa’s Swiffer Sweeper.

While she dealt with the man, Ebby watched as the Uber driver leave his vehicle and began to jog down the street. Water began to drip from his black beard as he waited for Aasa to realize what had happened.

She finally turned back proudly holding her Swiffer, only to look around puzzled. The man’s green Honda sat there, but where was the driver?

Trying not to let laughter force him to his knees, Ebby finally managed to gasp out, “He’s off tracking down Raven.” The dwarf pointed a finger in the direction the driver had gone. “Shall we track him down?”